There are two types of beautiful women.
The first one smiles through the comment that makes her uncomfortable because firing back would make her “difficult.”
She lets the hand sit on her thigh a second too long because making a scene feels worse than the hand.
The second one hears the comment pulls apart exactly why he’s wrong in two sentences, and just… leaves him there on a hill to die on it.
When someone puts a hand on her thigh and she looks him dead in the eye with a look that says “Back off dickhead or I’ll end you.”
The Agreeable Woman vs The Disagreeable Woman
When you’re being the first one.
You’re not being nice. You’re being afraid.
Afraid of what it actually means to be disliked.
Your capacity to be disliked is directly proportional to your ability to lead.
There’s a spectrum of likeable. Growing up, Barbie was the pinnacle.
White, blonde, slim, smiling.
The closer you matched that image, the more the system rewarded you for it. Doors opened. People were warm. And performing for other people’s approval actually worked, so you kept doing it.
Nobody told you the cost of that.
If you were further from that image – too brown, too loud, too fat, too much, too other – performing never really got you the same kind or rewards.
The approval wasn’t coming regardless of how palatable you made yourself.
And that, weirdly, was the gift.
If they don’t like you and don’t know you – who else is there left for you to be?
Just yourself.
I’m not saying I’m not beautiful.
When I walked past the Tongan bench at school it was like 20 sets of eyes watching a single steak sizzle on a barbeque.
But when the shelter boys threw fruit at me and my friends – I was the one who picked it up and pegged it straight back
When they graffited “Bianca Big Balls” on the wall – I wrote a poem about The Never Get Laid Brigade.
Did it sting? Fuck yeah.
I thought I was some huge kind of masculine man beast until 24 when a kind highschool friend gave me some perspective.
Up until then I didn’t realise how my strength emasculated small minded men.
OR actually, how attractive it even was – and how teasing me about my body was the only way to get my attention.
But I think I got those Disagreeable Woman reps at 15 instead of 45
So by now, the muscle is already built
I don’t need everyone to be okay for me to move.
I’m okay with people not responding to me the way they respond to others.
I’m alright with leading when nobody asked me to.
I’m okay sitting with your disapproval.
I’m okay with being loud.
That’s what gives me power.
And that makes me unfuckwithable
That’s what I want for you.
For my friends who were closer to the Barbie end of things and just… never had to build that muscle.
The reps you didn’t get – of being excluded, teased, seen as “other” for no good reason – those reps build something.
It’s the ability to be disliked and know it’s actually not about you.
And it’s also for those of you who weren’t the conventional ideal – too fat, too thin, too loud, too much hair, too whatever – but still wanted so badly to fit that you kept yourself small trying.
You got the exclusion without the defiance.
You got the sting without the “screw it.”
The Agreeable Woman rewrites the text four times so it sounds nicer.
She sits on her boundary for three days because she hasn’t found the palatable version yet.
She carries other people’s responsibilities like they’re hers because god forbid someone thinks she doesn’t care.
She permits things she should shut down.
She swallows things she should spit out.
She smiles through things that deserve her fire.
Unapologetic doesn’t mean you stop saying sorry when you actually mean it.
It means you say what you actually mean and let it land without padding it with fluff.
It means you take up the space you’re actually meant to take without quietly turning your volume down so other people feel more comfortable.
It’s a muscle.
And some of us just got to the gym earlier than others.
Your Barbie era is ending sister.
The world doesn’t actually reward you for being nice.
And the women who are meant to lead movements, build businesses, and change rooms – they can’t afford to still be negotiating with disapproval.
You know that scene of Erin Brockovitch giving them back the water from Hinkley – you get to be her. Or whoever you want to be.
Welcome to your Give No Fucks in Your Forties Era of The Disagreeable Woman.
This shit is going to be fun.
